


It's a Mess, It's a Start

by sequence_fairy



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichigo makes a mean latté and Rukia goes to too many poetry readings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Mess, It's a Start

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 2 of Ichiruki month.

The coffee shop on the corner of her block holds poetry readings on Wednesday nights. Rukia finds herself there more Wednesdays then not, and it has nothing to do with the guy behind the counter - nothing at all to do with the tall, ginger-haired guy who wears ninety of those leather bracelets if he wears one, whose long fingers are always tipped with black nails (his polish is always immaculate too, Rukia despairs of ever managing to keep hers from chipping for longer than five minutes) and he says her name with the right inflection, even though she only told him the one time.

Rukia couldn’t tell you anything about any of the people who perform, but she could write you pages and pages about the guy behind the counter. She wonders how he spikes the orange hair that falls into his face and spends way too much time thinking about how tight his jeans are when he comes out from behind the counter to lean against it when the rush is over.

He watches the poets, and Rukia watches him. He catches her sometimes, and she swears the corners of his mouth lift in her direction. They never say more than the usual conversation of customer and barista, and Rukia keeps coming back like clockwork on Wednesday night.

It’s late winter now, and she comes in with a gust of wind that sends her hair flying into her face and she misses her footing on the uneven cobblestone floor. A pair of hands catch her, and she shakes her hair out of her face to see who caught her.

It’s the barista, and his eyes are wide with surprise. Rukia knows hers are too, and she can feel the creep of a flush of embarrassment tingling up the back of her neck.

“Easy there,” he says, lifting her easily back onto her feet, “floor’s a bit dodgy.”

“T-thanks,” Rukia manages, reaching up to brush her hair back behind her ears.

“No problem,” the barista says, and now that she’s back on her feet, he leaves her to head back behind the counter. “Dark roast right? You want a shot tonight? It’s fucking cold out there,” he calls over his shoulder and Rukia notices for the first time that the place is empty. He’s busy behind the counter, having taken her non-answer as an affirmative.

Rukia moves towards the counter, “no poetry tonight?”

“No,” the barista says, and then slides the mug with her latté across the counter, “it was an arts group at the university - the class doesn’t run in the winter semester.”

“Oh,” Rukia says, and shrugs out of her coat. She settles on one of the stools at the counter, since the place is empty, and she might as well sit with the only other person here. She takes a sip of her latté, and he leans back against the counter on the back wall. The latté is perfect, like always, but there’s a hint of something else in it. She sets the mug down and looks up at him, “what did you put in my latté?” she asks, suddenly wary.

“Relax,” the barista says, “just added a bit of cinnamon - helps bring out the flavour of the roast.”

“It’s nice,” Rukia says, taking another sip.

“You’ve got a bit of foam –” the barista says, and leans in, swiping it off her top lip with his thumb. Rukia flushes to the roots of her hair and the barista seems to realise what he’s just done and jumps back so fast that it rattles the bottles of flavour shots on the back counter. “Uh,” he says, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

Rukia makes a decision. “I’m Rukia,” she says, and he scoffs.

“I know,” he says, “I write your name on your coffee every week.”

“This is usually the part of the conversation where you tell me your name,” Rukia says, smiling into her coffee as she watches his eyes widen.

“Right. Um,” he says, and Rukia lofts an eyebrow. He frowns at her. “I’m Ichigo,” he says finally, sticking his hand out at the level of her face. Rukia sets the mug down and takes his hand in hers. His palm is warm, and his fingers are calloused - she thinks he might play the guitar.

“Thanks for the latté Ichigo,” Rukia says, and he smiles. It changes his whole face. He was never not attractive - cheekbones a person could hurt themselves on and the kind of broody good looks that spawned a thousand young adult romance novels, but his smile? It’s like the sun’s come out and Rukia can’t help but grin back.

The coffee shop on the corner of her block no longer does poetry readings on Wednesday, and Rukia spends an awful lot more time there now. It has _everything_ to do with the guy behind the counter.


End file.
